The Ants Go Marching
by FFcrazy15
Summary: BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.


Disclaimer: don't own, don't profit, no copyright infringement intended.

**M*A*S*H**

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching one by one,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching one by one,_

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching one by one,_

_The little one stops to suck his thumb,_

_And they all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!_

He knew it was childish. No grown man of eighteen should cling so tightly to a teddy bear like he did. More than once he'd tried to convince himself to give it up. To throw it out like the ratty old cloth it was. But he couldn't.

The bear… meant something to him, he guessed. It was like one little connection to home that he couldn't bear to give up. Sometimes, when he woke up before reveille and the whole world was quiet, he could press the old stuffed toy to his nose, take in that deep breath of home, and convince himself that he was back in his bedroom.

Radar had never gone to college. He'd never seen life outside of Ottumwa. At eighteen he'd been drafted, expected to be a man, and sent halfway around the world.

Why did he keep such a childish toy? Perhaps it was because really, part of him was still a child.

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching two by two,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching two by two,_

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching two by two,_

_The little one stops to tie his shoe,_

_And they all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!_

The heels were a perfect pink, with a satin rose on the toe. Klinger sighed. Damn the army.

He didn't like this. He was most certainly a 'manly man' sort of guy. He'd grown up working low-pay jobs, getting into fights, and looking out for his many cousins. He'd been drafted- for what? What had he ever done to deserve getting sent to war? He was just an average American guy who liked to watch the Mudhens play and drink some beer on a Saturday night. What was so wrong about that? Why'd they have to go screw up his normal life by starting a war?

Well. If the army wouldn't let him be Joe Shmoe, then he'd be someone else entirely- maybe even multiple someone elses at once. Maybe he'd never get out on a Section Eight, but the army would live to regret the day they drafted Max Klinger.

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching three by three,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching three by three,_

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching three by three,_

_The little one stops to climb a tree,_

_And they all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!_

He rolled his sore shoulders and sighed. Arthritis was killer, especially on a surgeon.

The smell of rain was on the air as Col. Sherman Potter sat outside under the shade of a leafy, low-branched tree. Obviously a change in the weather was coming; he could feel it in his joints. He hoped they wouldn't be getting wounded anytime soon; operating with stiff hands was painful, not to mention dangerous for the patient.

He closed his eyes and mused about the old days, when he was a young upstart in the first World War. Oh, the strength and precision of youth… He remembered one of his old buddies daring him to get some kid's stuck kite out of a twenty-foot tree. And he'd done it, too. Got a real tongue-lashing from his CO, but none of them ever forgot it.

Potter let out a grunt as he stood and looked up at the green Asian tree above him. Well, this sure wasn't no twenty-footer, but a tree was a tree, wasn't it? Why not give it a go? In the back of his mind, he knew it was a stupid idea: he could fall and break a hip, and then where would his patients be? But still, something in him wanted to prove it to himself, that he could still do what he used to.

"Col. Potter, sir?"

He glanced back over his shoulder. Klinger was a few steps back. "Dinner's about ready, sir; thought you might want to know."

"Thank you, Klinger. I'll be along." He followed after the corporal, and then glanced back at the tree. "Nah," he said, waving the idea away and going for some chow. He wasn't as young as he used to be. May as well accept it.

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching four by four,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!  
>The ants go marching four by four,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!  
>The ants go marching for by four,<em>

_The little one stops to close the door,_

_And the all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!_

Margaret watched as the group of nurses dispersed into their various tents, and then slipped inside her own and turned on a lamp. The warm golden bulb gave the tent a warm, homey glow. For a moment, she closed her eyes and let the warmth of the light wash over her.

She could almost imagine it. A small fireplace, ablaze with the glow of golden flames, before which were placed two old stuffed armchairs, herself seated in one, a man beside her in the other. In front of them, a child played on the floor with a toy train set. The perfect family image.

And then, she opened her eyes again, and it was just an empty tent with an old desk lamp. Quietly, she shut the door behind her and pushed down the sense of longing in her stomach. There was no reason to keep it open. No one was going to come in, anyway.

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching five by five,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching five by five,_

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching five by five,_

_The little one stops to take a dive,_

_And they all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!_

Henry Blake adjusted his trusty fishing hat and leaned back against the airplane recliner. He could hardly believe it, but here he was, headed home. Finally, after so long, to see his family, his old house… His wife would be so happy to see him. And he'd get to meet his grandchild for the first time. Life was going to be perfect now. Just perfect.

He looked out the window. Beneath him shimmered the cerulean blue Sea of Japan. There was a feeling of surrealism to the air, as if the whole world were holding its breath.

Home. He was going home.

And then, the sound of gunfire split the air, and the plane spiraled into a nosedive.

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching six by six,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!  
>The ants go marching six by six,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!  
>The ants go marching six by six,<em>

_The little one stops to pick up sticks,_

_And they all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!_

The patient's army fatigues were soaked through with blood. B.J. hurriedly cut them open and began an brief examination.

There was nothing abnormal about the sight. Shrapnel had punctured his skin heavily in several areas. There didn't seem to be too much internal damage, although of course that was only an outside perception; there could easily be things he didn't see yet.

It was only after this assessment that he realized he'd just classified seeing a junkyard of metal forcibly shot into a human body as 'nothing abnormal.' He took a moment to appreciate the irony of war, that what would have shocked him as a doctor back home now appeared entirely ordinary.

"Scalpel," he called. A moment later, the instrument was pressed into his hand.

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching seven by seven,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!  
>The ants go marching seven by seven,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching seven by seven,_

_The little one stops to pray to Heaven,_

_And they all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!_

Fr. Mulcahy moved from patient to patient, from one groaning, bleeding man to the next, methodically checking dog tags, administering the Last Rites, providing comfort. He never got used to this. Every day, he gave the Viaticum to dying men, heard choked and fearful confessions, anointed foreheads with oil. And it never ceased to shock him.

At times, he wished with all his might that he could be like the others here, and develop some sort of armor against the fresh horrors that awaited him each day. But it never happened; he was just too sensitive a person. Perhaps that was for the best. If he thought he could survive this on his own, then maybe he wouldn't lean so heavily on his Creator.

As he stood and moved to the next patient, he sent up a silent plea. _Lord, please, just help me through this day. That's all I'm asking. I just need to make it through today._

Somehow, the prayer seemed to help, and he knelt down again beside another bloodied man and began to speak in Latin. The Lord never ceased to grant him the strength to get through the war… even if it was just one day at a time.

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching eight by eight,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching eight by eight,_

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching eight by eight,_

_The little one stops to shut the gate,_

_And they all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!_

The large old house was filled with laughter and conversation. Charles walked among the party guests, dressed in his nicest tuxedo. Sophistication and class, this was where he belonged. This was his element.

"B-b-brother, please, you h-have to try this w-wine!" Honoria approached him with a smile, holding out a crystal glass.

"Perhaps later, Honoria; I think I'll take a walk in the garden. It's been done up so nicely for the party."

"A-alright. I'll s-s-see you later!" She fluttered off in her lovely dress, surrounded by her friends.

He walked off towards the garden, greeting people in passing as he did so. After a time walking along the flowers, he found himself quite alone. When he glanced back, the thick foliage seemed to cover the house and block it from view, although he could still hear the laughter and music from the party. As he approached the old iron gate that separated the walled garden from the surrounding forest, he felt a certain apprehension. He looked behind him again, nervous, but could still faintly hear the happy hum of civilized life.

As he stepped through and closed the gate, the noise was cut off, as if by a door. He turned back and looked at the trees around him.

Instead of the cool, dark forests of Massachusetts, he found himself in the thick, humid undergrowth of the south-Korean jungle.

"Charles? You up?"

His eyes snapped open, and he saw the green canvas top of the Swamp tent. Hawkeye was looking at him expectantly. "Come on, Charles, wakey wakey. We've got to get going; wounded just came in."

"Oh. Yes, I see." He sat up stiffly and began to get ready. There was work to be done.

Yet even as he shoved on his army boots and hurried out the door towards triage, he could still hear the haunting echoes of laughter and music in the night.

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching nine by nine,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching nine by nine,_

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

_The ants go marching nine by nine,_

_The little one stops to check the time,_

_And they all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

_BOOM BOO BOOM BOOM!_

"Come on. Come on, damn you!"

"Hawkeye."

"Dammit, you can't give up now!" He pushed down on the man's chest. "COME ON!"

"Hawkeye," the voice said again, a little louder this time. He looked over as a hand touched his arm. Mulcahy shook his head sadly.

"Call it, Pierce," Potter called over.

He swallowed, and then forced himself to look up at the clock. "Three-o-five."

As business in the OR continued, Hawkeye stared at the dead soldier, stunned. "I'm sorry, Hawk," B.J. told him quietly from the next table over.

Hawkeye nodded exhaustedly and blinked back the burning in his eyes. No time for grief. "Next patient," he called.

* * *

><p><em>The ants go marching ten by ten,<em>

_Hurrah! Hurrah!_

"Scalpel."

"Sir, we're running low on B-positive."

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen…"

_The ants go marching ten by ten…_

_Hurrah._

_Hurrah._

The OR was filled with the usual, almost frantic busyness as CO's gave orders, clerks reported statistics, medics carried wounded in and out, priests prayed, nurses assisted, and surgeons operated.

Certainly, it was a great honor to serve one's country. But war wasn't what it was made out to be in novels or recruiting videos. War wasn't glorious.

_The ants go marching ten by ten,_

_The little one stops to say, "The end."_

The seemingly endless tragedy took its toll on all of them. Here, in the middle of the MASH 4077, each dealt with the daily horror and slog of the war as best they knew how, some better than others, some worse, the whole group supporting each other where they could.

_And they all go marching_

_Down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain._

And outside the walls of the OR, the pounding rain of bullets and bombs, wounded and dying, continued.

_BOOM._

_BOOM._

_BOOM._

_BOOM._


End file.
